by Tegan Maher
"Why, baby?" she asked when she got to Jill.
Her daughter's eyes were filled with an odd combination of emotions—fear, anger, pleading—depending on which of us she looked at.
Her lip curled. "Because she deserved it. She was a cow and she ruined your life when she disqualified you from that wedding contest. That was supposed to be your big break. And then when they switched it up and announced she was gonna be judging here, I hoped she would do right by you the second time around. But yesterday, when she said your coffeecakes weren't any good ... I just saw it happening all over again. Your second chance, and she was gonna blow it for you, too."
Nina was looking at Jill like she didn't even know her, her forehead creased, her eyes filled with shock and disbelief, and tears streaming down her face. "But murder? Jill, you had to have known I would never want to win like that. I'd have never wanted you to blacken your soul that way!"
"I swear, I just went to talk to her while you were practicing. I was hungry, so I went downstairs to get the hotplate and egg skillet, and she was just ... there. I told her she needed to lighten up on you, and that she owed you for stealing the last competition from you."
She was crying now, so hard it was difficult to understand what she was saying. "And all she said was that it wasn't her fault you over-baked your cakes this time or that you double dipped with your spoon at the wedding competition. She acted like none of it was her fault. I got so mad, and I just ... I hit her."
Nina rushed forward and put her arms around her handcuffed daughter, then brushed her hair back from her face and said, "But baby, it was all my fault. Bella didn't lick the spoon and put it back in the food. Bella didn't overcook my cakes. I did."
Gabe cleared his throat. "And why did you put the skillet in Faith's room?"
Jill shot him a glare. "Because she's a loser. Look how easily all of you believed it was her. She'd lost to Bella before, and I'd seen Bella call her into her room. I knew then that the old bat had already decided who was going to win this competition, before it ever really started, and Mama was gonna get the shaft again. So ... I killed two birds with one stone, you might say."
I understood the logic even if I didn't understand how anybody could actually be so ruthless over a crazy baking competition.
But the important thing was that we'd gotten justice for Bella and Faith, and that's all we'd ever wanted.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Since the murder was solved and all was well, we all took the next day off, including Gabe, who'd wrapped the case up the night before, and headed to the lake. The water was still a little too cold to swim in for long, but at least we could go for a quick dunk to cool off. The county had created nice little picnic areas at intervals around the lake, and we'd set up camp next to one that was off the beaten path and used mostly by locals.
Scout and Gabe were manning the grill, and the luscious scent of burning charcoal and cooking meat filled the air.
"It's amazing how spending a few days in jail with the potential of a life sentence makes a girl appreciate the simple things," Faith said, lying on her back, propped up on her elbows with her face tilted toward the sun.
"Trust me, I know," Dee replied, spraying her arms with sunscreen. "I've been there, and if it weren't for Toni, I'd most likely be in the state pen, looking at the sun through a barred window."
"Nah," I said from my spot beside her. "Gabe wouldn't have let that happen. He'd have come around."
"Maybe, maybe not. Either way, I'm glad you were there as a solid backup."
Bear came tearing up from the water to chase a giant white bird who'd dared to land in his camp, barreling straight toward us in hot pursuit.
"Bear, no!" I said, putting my hands up to stop him. He skidded to a stop just feet from us, slinging sand over our feet. To add insult to injury, he proceeded to walk right over the blanket, tracking wet sand in his wake, and gave Dee a huge lick up the cheek. He pulled back a bit, giving her a big doggy smile.
She tried to pushed him away, her face scrunched. "Bear! Get off me, you big lunk. Eww. dirty dog sand in fresh sunscreen."
He did as he was told, but then braced himself. I realized what he was doing a split second before he actually did it.
"Watch out," I yelped, trying to roll out of the way, but I was too late. He shook his massive body, slinging dirty lake water ten feet in all directions.
"Why do we have a dog again?" I asked, spitting sand off my lips. I wiped my mouth and face with the back of my hand, but all I did was the smear the dirt and gunk. He came up and shared the love, giving me a full-cheek kiss in apology.
"I have no idea," Dee replied, scowling at him. He just wagged his tail in response.
I pushed up from the blanket. "C'mon. Let's take a quick dip. It's the only way we're gonna get this off."
When I reached the water, I dipped a toe in and shivered.
"Only one way to do it," Dee said, resolve in her voice as she took the plunge. She came up several feet away, gasping, then splashed us. We were still only calf deep, taking the slow approach, and cringed when the icy water rained down on us.
"Stop being babies and woman up," she said, treading water. "It's not that bad once you're in."
Taking a deep breath, I did as she said and took the plunge, and Faith did the same. Dee was right; after the initial shock, the water wasn't so bad, especially considering the temperature was already hovering in the mid-eighties and climbing.
"Food's ready!" Scout called, and my stomach growled in response.
In just a few minutes, we all had loaded plates and were gathered around the picnic table, tucking in.
"So what's up with the competition?" Scout asked around a mouthful of hot dog.
Dee paused, her forkful of potato salad hovering midair. "They found another judge willing to jump in, and we're resuming day after tomorrow."
"What about the the two people you're down?" Gabe asked. "Isn't the competition supposed to run for fifteen episodes?"
Faith shrugged. "They haven't said yet, so I guess we'll find out when we go in. They'll probably just schedule in two surprise weeks when nobody goes home. Either that, or they'll start all over with two of the reserve competitors."
Dee groaned. "My guess is that they'll do the second. Otherwise, it'll be hard to explain why Jill and Nina were there one week but gone the next. Which means my win will be scrubbed, too."
Faith bumped her with her shoulder and grinned. "Yeah, but it also means that I get a do-over. My undercooked coffeecake will be nothing but a bad memory."
"That is an upside," Dee conceded. "You're too good to face going home because of that." She shot our new friend a stern look. "And you better manage your time better. I don't want to beat you because you didn't get something on the plate."
Faith raised her brows and gave her a sassy grin. "Maybe if I manage my time and get my dishes out the way I want them, you won't beat me at all."
Dee smiled back. "Put your shortcakes and breads where your mouth is, sweetie. Then we'll see."
I glanced up to find Scout studying me, and when I caught his eye, he gave me a warm smile that went all the way to his crystalline eyes. As usual, my belly got warm, and I decided then and there that it had been long enough; it was time to move things to the next level.
Dee and Gabe had already scheduled their second date and Dee had threatened to quit baking if I didn't make a move with Scout. I'd already made my decision, but I sped it up a bit because her mixed-berry turnovers had become a staple in my life. No need to poke the bear.
Speaking of, the humongous black dog I'd come to love had flopped down in the shade several feet from us and was watching through half-slit eyes, just waiting for a hot dog or the remains of a burger to hit the ground.
As the people I'd come to care about laughed and ate around me, I couldn't help but compare where I was at to where I'd come from. A few scant months ago, I'd come to Mercy looking for a new start. When Dee plucked a pickle off my plat
e and Scout shot me another smile, a warm blanket of belonging washed over me and I knew I'd found my home.
The End
Thank you!
I hope you enjoyed reading this installment of the Haunted Lodge series as much as I liked writing it. I take great joy in writing about life in small towns because it takes me back to my roots. This particular series is special to me because, like Noelle Flynn and I, Toni and I have a lot in common. I work best when I work from my heart, and I hope that shines through! Thank you for giving me a few hours of your time, and I hope you enjoyed your visit. Book 4 in this series, Sconed to Death, will be out in September and is available now for preorder here.
If you haven’t read my Witches of Keyhole Lake series, I invite you to do so. I’m including Chapter 1 for you to preview in the following pages.
Thank you again, and happy Reading!
Tegan ☺
Sweet Murder, Witches of Keyhole Lake 1
Using the hem of my apron, I pulled the last batch of blueberry turnovers out of the oven and slid them onto the counter to cool. They were an even, golden brown, and a quick poke with a fork assured me the crust was light and flaky. Perfect. The customers at Brew4U, my best friend and cousin Raeann's coffee shop, were going to eat them up. That was good, because right now every few bucks mattered.
Speaking of money, I glanced at the clock on the microwave and that cold, I’m-gonna-be-late feeling swept over me. As it always did, time had gotten away from me while I was baking and I had less than fifteen minutes to get to work. Panicked, I turned the oven off with a wave of my hand, then bolted into the laundry room and pulled my server's apron and work shirt out of the dryer. I changed into the tank top on my way through the living room, grabbed my purse, and made my way out the front door, nearly face planting when I tripped over our miniature donkey Max, who was napping at the bottom of the steps.
"Watch it, you big clod! Mayhap I shall kick you in the head the next time you’re napping," he grumped, then yawned wide, taking most of the intimidation factor out of the threat.
"If I were sleeping at the bottom of the steps, I'd expect to get kicked in the head," I said over my shoulder as I recovered and made my way toward Bessie, my faded blue, shabby-chic 1984 F150. Yes, shabby-chic is code for "POS." Don't judge me—it's paid for. And yes, the donkey talks, but we'll get to that a little later. Trust me - after you meet him, you'll be glad for the delay.
I slid into the truck, yelping and lifting my hips when the sensitive skin of the back of my legs hit the searing cracked leather seat. I pushed my apron under my legs and settled back gingerly, then, with an encouraging pat to the dashboard, I cranked the key. She coughed and wheezed a little, but surprised me yet again when she caught and roared to life. Yes! Another check in the win column for the day. I backed out of the yard and headed down the driveway to the main road, admiring the late-morning view as I did.
Even with my window down, the temperature inside the truck was just this side of hellfire, so I reached across the seat and cranked the passenger window down, too. Mid-summer in southern Georgia was brutal, and the AC had gone out on the truck a few months back. Unfortunately, fixing it didn't even make the top twenty on the laundry list of priorities that demanded a chunk of my check.
Still, as I rumbled out of the yard and drove past the horses grazing in the pasture, I figured I didn’t have a whole lot to complain about in the scheme of things. No matter how many times I travel our mile-long driveway, I never got tired of it. Ancient oak trees draped with Spanish moss lined both sides, forming a canopy of leaves and limbs that speckled the shaded dirt road with sunspots. I breathed a sigh of relief as I entered the tunnel of shade and the interior of the truck finally dropped somewhere below the melting point of flesh.
Just as I turned onto the main road, I spotted a couple of deer out of the corner of my eye. When I tapped the brakes in case they decided to run out in front of me, the pedal felt spongy. Since the house sat on an overlook outside of town, much of my drive was a steady, winding descent; brakes weren't exactly optional, so I tested them again.
I was coming up to the first of several hairpin turns, so when the pedal went clear to the floor, so did my heart. Cold fingers of panic raced down my spine as I stomped on it again, and a third time, to no avail. The truck picked up speed, and as I bounced and rattled toward my demise over potholes that now felt like craters, I had only one thought: How on earth was Raeann going to finish raising my hellion of a little sister without strangling her or hexing her into a convent?
You heard right—I said "hex." We're witches, which you’d think would have come in handy right about then. You'd be right, except I was too freaked out—and busy trying not to die—to pull any magic together.
I managed to make it around the first curve, but there was another coming up a quarter-mile ahead. If I dropped off the road there, I would have careened about three hundred yards down a steep slope then flown over a cliff into a granite quarry, assuming I didn't meet my maker by smashing headlong into a tree before then.
Adrenaline flooded my body, making my hands feel like I was wearing boxing gloves as I did my best to wrangle the truck into the turn. I was almost home-free when the passenger-side tire dropped off the steep berm, blew with a tremendous bang, and jerked the truck off the road. After that, it was all over but the crashing.
The truck plowed through the brush at the edge of the road and kept rumbling right on over the edge. My skull thunked off the doorframe and the forward momentum shoved my knees into the dash—in the ’80s, seatbelts then weren't quite what they are now. The sound of rocks and bushes scraping the undercarriage harmonized perfectly with the terror raking over my nerves.
My head whipped forward and cracked on the steering wheel before my ancient seatbelt finally caught. I came so close to a giant oak that it ripped my mirror off and flung it into the truck. I scrunched my eyes shut and threw my arms up to defend my face from the incoming debris. Then, just when I'd resigned myself to a bone-crushing demise, the truck lurched to an abrupt stop.
For a few seconds, I was afraid to open my eyes, but then I was afraid not to. Metal groaned and I reached forward with shaking hands to shut the truck off. I poked my head out the window to see what had stopped my descent to certain death—or at least extreme agony and disfigurement. A little maple tree about eight inches thick was wedged between my rear bumper and the body of the truck.
Bessy slid a bit, so I didn't waste any more time. I opened the door and jumped from the cab, releasing a sigh of epic proportions as I landed relatively unscathed in the soft grass. I grabbed my purse from the floorboard and just left the door hanging open, too spent to shut it, and too scared the movement would send the truck the rest of the way over the hill. The last thing I needed was to completely lose my transportation and there was no way I had enough magical mojo right then to pull it back up the hill. That trick would have been a stretch on my best day, and that definitely wasn’t it.
I bent over and placed my palms on my knees, waiting for my body to stop shaking enough to make the trek back toward the road. Once I had a modicum of control over my limbs, I walked up the hill a bit and collapsed onto a butt-sized rock, staring in disbelief at the sight of my beast of a truck dangling half way down the hill from that one scrawny little maple tree. Something trickled down the side of my face and when I touched my eyebrow, my fingers came away sticky with blood. I hadn't even felt the pain until right then.
I put my head between my knees and thanked the universe for giving me a pass, and sent a grateful push of energy to the little tree. When my hands stopped shaking and my head cleared enough to allow me to think beyond surviving, I reached for my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found the number for Skeeter's Garage and Appliances. Don't let the name fool you; he meets all three of my gold-star requirements: he's good, he's honest, and he's cheap.
After three rings, Skeeter himself answered and I'd never been so happy to hear his cheerful twa
ng in all my life.
I gave him the 411 on what had just happened and told him where I was at, grateful for once to live in a small town where the only directions required were, "the curve right above Old Man Bailey's quarry on the way to my place."
I ended the call and turned to make my way the rest of the way up the hill when the feeling of being watched made the hairs on my nape stand up. I searched the trees and caught a glimpse of sunlight reflecting off something a hundred yards or so up the hill on the other side of the road. My gaze darted toward the glint and I scanned the spot for any other sign of movement. Freezing in place, I watched for further movement, but all stayed still. I decided to stay right where I was a, figuring it would be a whole lot harder for some ax-wielding serial killer to drag me up the hill than to just shove me in a van if I was standing conveniently by the road.
Yes, I'm a capable witch and I live in BFE, Georgia and the odds of a random serial killer just happening by were about the same as going to Walmart without seeing at least one hairy butt crack, but I wasn't feeling particularly rational at that point. Pulling as much defensive magic into my hands as I could manage in my frazzled state just in case, I leaned on a pecan tree and hoped Skeeter would hold true to his promise to get there in "two shakes of a coon's tail" before my paranoia got the better of me. Little did I know then that just because you're paranoid doesn't mean you're wrong.
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